The Infernal Crown: Of Roses and Lies

Chapter 12

I waited for the sound of footsteps to recede before I said, "Now that I'm here, what ... what do you plan to do with me?"

Oberon snorted, but Phoebus said with a snarl of annoyance, "Just sit down."

An empty seat had been magically pulled out at the end of the table. So much food, piping hot, and wafting the smells of those enticing spices. The servants had probably brought out new food while I dressed. So much wasted. I clenched my fists.

Phoebus rose, stalking around the table—closer and closer, each movement a lethal grace, a predator blooded with power. It was an effort to keep still—especially after he picked up a dish, brought it over to me, and piled some asparagus and meat on my plate.

I said quietly, "I can serve myself." Anything, anything to keep him well away from me.

Phoebus paused, so close that with one motion of his hands, I would be dead. "It's an honour for a human to be served by a Seelie Faerie," he said roughly.

I swallowed hard. My throat went dry as he continued piling all sorts of foods, stopping only when it was heaping with meat and sauce and bread, and then filled my glass with pale sparkling wine. I loosed a breath when he finally walked back to his seat, though he could probably hear it.

All I wanted to do was to bury my face in my plate and then eat my way down the table, but I pinned my hands under my thighs and stared at the two faeries.

They watched me closely, too closely to be casual. Phoebus straightened a bit and said, "You look ... better than before."

Was that complement? I could have sworn Oberon gave Phoebus and encouraging nod.

"And your skin is ... clean."

Perhaps it was my intense hunger making me hallucinate the piss-poor attempt at flattery. Even the village boys could do better than that. Still, I leaned back and kept my words calm and quiet. "You're Seelie Faeries—faerie nobility?"

Oberon coughed and looked at Phoebus. "You can answer that question."

"Yes," Phoebus said, frowning—as if pondering what to say to me. He settled on merely: "We are."

Fine, then. A man—faerie of few words. I was an unwanted guest in his home. If I were him, I wouldn't want to talk to me, either.

"What do you plan to do with me now that I am here?"

Phoebus's eyes didn't leave my face as he said, "Nothing. Do whatever you want."

"So, I am not to be your slave?" I dared ask, leaning forwards in my seat.

Oberon choked on his wine. But Phoebus didn't smile. "I don't keep slaves."

I ignore the release of tightness in my chest at that. "But what am I to do with my life here?" I pressed. "Do you ... do you wish for me to earn my keep? To work?" Perhaps it was a stupid question. But I had to ask him—had to know. My job was going to get harder if I had to earn my keep.

Phoebus stiffened. "What you do with your life isn't my problem."

Oberon pointedly cleared his throat, and Phoebus flashed him a glare. After an exchanged look I could read, Phoebus sighed and said, "Don't you have any ... interests?"

"No." It wasn't entirely true, but I wasn't about to explain the painting and the sketching to him. Not when he was apparently having a great deal of trouble just talking civilly to me.

Oberon muttered, "So typically human."

Phoebus's mouth quirked to the side. "Do whatever you want. Just don't get into trouble."